6 Things I'd Tell My Postpartum Self

These aren't answers nor are they for everyone.

They’re reflections from the other side.

The things I needed to hear.

The things that challenged me.

The things that changed me.

The things that deeply shaped the work I do today.

Because I know what it's like to look around at the life you've always wanted and still feel lost within it.

I went into motherhood thinking I'd already done the hard work.

I'd overcome mental illness.

I'd learnt how to live with my own mind.

I'd built a pretty decent toolbox for getting through hard seasons.

Then postpartum and matrescence came along and cracked open parts of me I didn't know would hit so hard.

Parts that were uncomfortable and incredibly messy.

Parts that eventually helped explain not only my experience of motherhood, but parts of myself I'd never fully understood.

Six years, a lot of learning, and a very loved little boy later, these are the things I'd tell my postpartum self.

1. A difficult postpartum won't always define your relationship with your child.

Right now you're terrified that postpartum depression and anxiety are stealing something you'll never get back.

In some ways, they do. You don't get those newborn days back.

But they don't automatically take away something that belongs only to you and your child.

The way you feel in those early days doesn't necessarily determine the relationship you'll have years later.

You don't need to feel an instant rush of love the moment they're placed on your chest.

Not everyone does.

Sometimes it grows slowly.

Sometimes it arrives after the blur and fog lifts.

Sometimes it sneaks up on you years later while they're telling you a story, holding your hand, or making you laugh so hard you forget how hard those early days were.

The bond you're scared you've missed isn't always built in a single moment - sometimes it's built over thousands of ordinary ones.

2. Stop using motherhood as a reason not to care for yourself.

I know you're tired.

I know the days feel relentless.

And I know that sometimes you genuinely don't have time.

But sometimes it's not time that's missing - It's capacity.

The version of "time for yourself" you had before children probably doesn't exist anymore.

When you're just trying to get through the day, it's easy to feel like there's nothing left for you.

I get it. But you still matter too.

This isn't about self-care.

It's about finding micro moments to stay connected to yourself, within the capacity you have now.

Maybe it's five minutes where noone is asking anything of you.

Connection doesn't have to come from grand gestures or perfect routines - sometimes it's found in the smallest moments.

Your relationship with yourself deserves your attention too.

You need you, just as much as your baby does.

3. Comparison really will steal your joy.

Stop comparing your baby to their baby.

Your house to their house.

Your village to their village.

Your mental health to their mental health.

You cannot compare two completely different lives and expect the comparison to tell you anything useful.

You're comparing different babies. Support. Capacities. Seasons.

Different nervous systems. Relationships. Personalities. Upbringings.

Different values. Opportunities. Resources.

Of course they don't look the same.

Stop using someone else's life as evidence that you're getting

yours wrong, because it's not.

Try keep your attention on your own life.

Your own capacity.

Your own values.

Your own version of a good life within your capacity and reality.

You can't build a life you love while staring at someone else's.

4. A small village can still raise a deeply loved child.

I know you're grieving the support you thought you'd have.

I know it feels heavier than you'd like to admit.

The family who live too far away.

The people who live close, but don't show up.

The support you thought would be there and simply wasn't.

But a childhood isn't always defined by how many people show up.

It's shaped by the love, safety and connection they come home to,

day after day.

And you've got more of that to give than you realise.

One day you'll look around and think:

"Shit. We actually did that all by ourselves”

And you will probably still wish things had been different.

But, there is a bittersweet kind of pride that comes from building something beautiful with less support than you deserved.

You'll likely always grieve the village you didn't have.

But you'll also be incredibly proud of what you built without it.

5. You’ll learn to bend, not break.

This season is challenging.

Anyone who tells you otherwise is most likely full of shit.

There will be moments you hit absolute breaking point.

Not "I need a holiday" breaking point.

Actual skin crawling on the shower floor breaking point.

The kind where you're exhausted, overwhelmed and genuinely don't know how you're supposed to keep doing this.

But somehow, you do.

Not because you're resilient or “you’ve got this, mama”

Not because you've mastered motherhood.

But because sometimes there isn't another option.

So you bend. You adapt. You find a way through.

And every time you come through something you didn't think you could handle, you discover another layer of emotional resilience you didn't know was humanly possible.

Parenting isn't for the faint-hearted.

But there is something pretty magical about looking back and realising just how far you've come.

6. You don’t have to keep wishing you could be "more" or do "better".

You'll probably spend a lot of time grieving the birth, the postpartum or early parenting experiences you wish you'd had.

The support. The village.

The version of motherhood you imagined.

The version of yourself you thought you'd be.

But eventually you'll realise there is no going back.

You don't get to revisit those years with what you know now.

You don't get to mother that baby as the woman you've become.

And that's okay.

Because that woman was doing the best she could with what she knew, what she had, and what she was carrying.

She wasn't perfect.

She was exhausted. Anxious. Overwhelmed. Learning.

But she kept going.

You don't need to keep wishing she'd done better.

She became exactly who you needed her to be.